W.E.B. Griffin - The Corps VII - Behind the Lines

"You are volunteering, Chambers," Admiral Wagam said. "You under-stand that?"

"Yes, Sir. I understand."

Wagam looked at Pickering. ®

"Have we an understanding, General?"

"Ken?" Pickering asked.

"If General Fertig is what he says he is, we're going to need the Nar-whal," McCoy replied. "I'd rather see her surface a month from now, two months from now, and be able to unload a couple of tons of equipment, than take a chance on losing everything now-which would also blow our chances to help Fertig for a long time."

Pickering nodded.

"We have an understanding, Admiral," he said.

"Lieutenant Lewis, from this moment, you are detached until further or-ders to Operation Windmill," Wagam said.

"Aye, aye, Sir."

"Can you really, Lewis?" McCoy asked.

"Can I really what, McCoy?"

"Chew gum and walk at the same time?"

"Presuming the ground is reasonably level," Lewis replied.

I'll be damned, Pickering thought. McCoy likes him. And vice versa. I wonder what Sessions thinks of him; I'll have to ask.

"Ed," he said. "You'll take care of Lewis? Find him a place to stay, et cetera? There's no more room here, unfortunately."

"My pleasure, Sir," Sessions said.

"Colonel Stecker and I are now going to take the Admiral on a tour of Brisbane's famed tourist attractions," Pickering said. "Starting with the Gen-tlemen's Bar at the Maritime Club."

"If Commander Feldt calls, General, shall I tell him where you are?" McCoy asked.

"By all means, Mr. McCoy," Pickering said. "Commander Feldt is one nautical experience that I'm sure the Admiral, despite his long career, has not yet experienced."

"Feldt?" Wagam asked. "The Coastwatcher man?"

"Right," Pickering said. "As a matter of fact, Ken, see if you can get Feldt on the horn and ask him to join us. And if Colonel DePress calls, ask him to join us, too... if he calls. I hope he does, but do not call him; I don't want Willoughby to accuse me of arranging secret meetings with somebody on his staff."

"Aye, aye, Sir."

"Captain," Lieutenant Lewis said to Sessions almost as soon as Pickering, Wagam, and Stecker were out the door, "don't we know each other?"

"You're '40, right?"

"Right," Lewis asked, immediately understanding that Sessions meant the class of 1940 at the United States Naval Academy, Annapolis. He was un-able to keep himself from looking at Sessions's hand. There was no Annapolis

ring.

"Thirty-nine," Sessions said. "I think we had a class in steam generation together."

"And then the Navy wouldn't take you and you had to join the Marines?"

"Why do I think we're going to have trouble with this swab-jockey?" McCoy asked.

"They start out all right, Ken," Sessions said. "But then they send them down in submarines, and all that pressure squeezes their brains."

"Can I go home, Mr. McCoy?" Staff Sergeant Koffler asked. "Or are you going to need me for something?"

"My compliments to Madame Koffler, Sergeant Koffler," McCoy said. "Take a jeep. Then call Pluto about 2100 and see if Gimpy has a way home from the dungeon. The General does not, repeat does not, want him driving himself. If he needs a ride, you drive him. And we'll see you at 0800."

"Ken," Lieutenant Hart said, "I'll go fetch Gimpy."

"You stay loose to drive the General. If Feldt shows up at the Gentleman's Bar, they'll probably need somebody to drive them."

"Right," Hart said. "Sorry, Koffler."

"No problem, Mr. Hart," Koffler said, and turned to McCoy. "Aye, aye, Sir."

McCoy waited until Koffler had left the dining room, and then opened a drawer in a sideboard, took out a bottle of scotch, and held it up in a gesture of asking if anyone else wanted a drink.

Interesting, Lewis thought, the sergeant asked Lieutenant McCoy for his orders, not Captain Sessions. And McCoy gave the orders; and McCoy, not Sessions, announced the cocktail hour.

"Yes, please," Lewis said.

"Me, too," Sessions said.

"Thank you very much," Hart said.

Hart took a tray of glasses from the sideboard. McCoy splashed whiskey into four of them, announced that only feather merchants used ice, and raised his glass.

"Welcome aboard, Swabbie," he said.

"Thank you," Lewis said.

"It will at least teach you something that every Marine learns in boot camp," McCoy said.

"I already know how to tie my shoes, Mr. McCoy." Lewis said.

"I was thinking about never volunteering for anything," McCoy said.

"You volunteered, Ken," Sessions said. "Pickering told me."

"Knowing you're the only guy available to do the job is not the same as volunteering," McCoy replied.

"That's splitting hairs."

"I have to go, and you know it," McCoy said.

"Can I ask a question?" Lewis asked.

"Depends on the question, whether you get an answer," McCoy said.

"What about the OSS?"

"I'm deeply ashamed to confess the sonofabitch is a classmate of mine," Sessions said; and then, seeing McCoy had held up his hand like a traffic po-liceman, said, "What, Ken?"

"The General told me I was not to discuss that subject with the Navy until he brought it up with the Admiral. I think that includes you."

"OK," Sessions said.

"Do I look like a Japanese spy, or what?" Lewis asked.

"In that white uniform, you look more like a Good Humor man, I'd say," McCoy said. "Next question?"

It was said jokingly, but Lewis knew that he was not going to learn any-thing more about the man from the OSS from either Sessions or McCoy.

"Tell me about 'Pluto' and 'Gimpy' and the 'dungeon,' " he said.

"The dungeon is the Special Channel place, inside the SWPOA Comm Center," McCoy said. "Unless you've got a MAGIC clearance, you can't get in there. We're not even supposed to know about it. Pluto, otherwise known as Major Hon Son Do, Signal Corps, USA, runs it. Gimpy is Lieutenant John Marston Moore, USMCR, who forgot to duck on the 'Canal and as a result limps. He works for Pluto. They live here; you'll meet them. Next question?" "Everybody lives here but the OSS man?" Lewis asked.

"Next question?" Sessions said.

"If I really wanted ice for the drink, where would I find it?" Lewis asked.

[ONE]

Gentlemen's Bar

The Maritime Club

Brisbane, Australia

1825 Hours 29 November 1942

"Nice place," Admiral Wagam said to General Pickering, looking around the comfortably elegant room, furnished with dark-maroon leather couches and chairs, its paneled walls holding discreetly lighted oil portraits of men in mer-chant marine uniforms and sailing ships under full sail.

An elderly, white-jacketed waiter appeared immediately as Pickering, Stecker, and Wagam sat down.

"Good evening, gentlemen," he said.

"Are you a scotch drinker, Admiral?" Pickering asked. Wagam nodded.

The waiter delivered glasses, a soda siphon bottle, a bowl of ice cubes, and a bottle.

"We'll pour, thank you," Pickering said, and when the waiter left them, did so.

He picked up his glass.

"How about to 'Interservice Cooperation'?" he asked.

"How about 'The Corps'?" Admiral Wagam said. "Jack NMI and Flem-ing, I give you The Corps."

They sipped their drinks.

"The Navy," Stecker said, and raised his glass again.

"How about to the kids we're sending off on Operation Windmill?" Pickering said. "God protect them."

"Hear, hear," Wagam said.

"Before we get really carried away," Stecker said. "Are there any unan-swered questions? Have we done everything we can?"

"I've got a question," Wagam said, "about the OSS involvement."

"Apparently," Pickering said, "Colonel 'Wild Bill' Donovan got the President to order Frank Knox to order me to include two OSS agents in the Fertig operation. Which Donovan, apparently, has decided to name Opera-tion Windmill. When my deputy in Washington, Colonel Rickabee-"